


waiting for someone who needs me

by s_t_c_s



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Angst, Antiquing, Beth has a wildly inspired approach to naming a business, Dirty Talk, Domesticity, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grief, Idiots, Masturbation, appalling communication skills, beth thinks she could take rio in a fight, but mostly life angst, but tbf he doesn't know shit, given half the chance beth would punch the sun in the face, housework porn (figurative), internalised capitalism, mentions of past beth/dean but mostly in terms of dean being TRASH, rio is a cryptic banana, rio is in full victorian goth mode (aesthetically)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24574180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_t_c_s/pseuds/s_t_c_s
Summary: (man pops up like a) genie aua divorced Beth takes up antiquing, it leads to pestering.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 40
Kudos: 439





	waiting for someone who needs me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [septiembre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/septiembre/gifts).



> Inspired by the man pops up like a genie line (obvs), Beth's canonical obsession with fairy tales, Rio's tendency to ask what Beth wants, and the girls' antiquing cover story. (And my own prompt, whoops.)
> 
> NB: includes some light edging (or some heavy edging, depending on how you look at it). Given the nature of wishes, Beth briefly considers some (at least) dubcon activities, though she recognises them as such (and that's entirely nongraphic). There's also some discussion of waking someone up with sex, but in a planned/consensual way. And there's a blink and you'll miss it sort of but maybe not quite mention of a threesome fantasy.
> 
> Also, while I guess they don't do anything directly reprehensible here, they WOULD. They still very much suck.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon. It’s a Tuesday afternoon, which means Jane’ll have soccer, Emma and Danny their respective dance classes; Kenny will need hustling to the new tutor he still seems somewhat tentative about. But none of that is her problem, given it’s Dean’s week.

It’s been a hefty adjustment. Beth felt guilty a while, staring into the opening avenues of her solo time, scenting not despair – for the kids weren’t ever to be gone from her for long – but _opportunity_. She’d thrown herself even further into work initially, not allowing much in the way of respite, enjoyment.

Because, the thing is, motherhood nestles like it’s _forever_ been a part of her identity, from long before the concrete fact grew. At least since Annie, the mere _idea_ of her even. Beth had begged and begged and begged for a little sister (she’d been specific on that detail too, _no_ boys) practically from the moment she learnt how to frame the words. Had ached for such a companion – one she could teach, as well as entertain. For an interminable stretch, Beth had to settle with attending to her dolls, until she finally received notice of her inbound appeasement. And, god, she’d been so excited – especially at being able to select the baby’s name.

But – reality didn’t unfold as expected, not like the story books. Soon it felt that Beth’d accidentally swapped her mother for the beloved diminutive prize. A bargain far too high, too complex to comprehend, for weighing upon anyone – let alone the child she’d been. And of course it was often frightening and horrid, but Annie had needed her, so Beth had pirouetted into that protective role, determined to batten down evidence of pain and problems, foregrounding the pragmatic.

If she’s not playing mommy duty, if her loved ones don't need her, it always feels like she ought to be working. Being _productive_. Earning. But her body, mind too, had creaked in protest at the post-divorce pace. Eventually Ruby and Stan had chided her into calming some, scaling back. Not that Annie hadn’t tried too, but Beth’s never been good at digesting wisdom from that source, try as she might to decrease such instant jerking.

Now she has a ritual. At least one day out of a week the kids spend with Dean, she _won’t_ go to the bakery. Will do something – anything – for herself instead. It feels luxurious in a way that’s surely close to the forbidden, a daunting ecstasy. When the Bethdays first started up, it had been a little frustrating that Annie and Ruby couldn’t always join for an adventure. At times it was a hard no, which was disappointing, but not corrosive as the others, where two or three of them _had_ a plan, but then childcare or shift work or another of life’s grubby tentacles reached out and upset the logistics. It’s not as if she and Dean had felt a well-matched entity, for really aeons before the final nail, but there’d been comfort to the presence of another soul, in access to a companion that could trot along with her.

Maybe that was all part of the curve however, learning to be content with loneliness. _Liking_ it, even. That first solo theatre trip had filled Beth with trepidation, but then the reality – being entertained in a dark room where speaking would be inappropriate anyway – gave her the confidence to try more and more. Still, she’s generally happiest when the full gaggle (Stan included) can make use of a groupon together.

Her main fad of the moment is antiquing. She insistently refers to it as ‘visiting the markets’, when speaking to Annie. Though that barely softens her, and Beth nevertheless has to contend with several ‘ew’s per conversation, as well as tired insect jokes.

This morning she headed out bright and early, drove over towards Port Huron for the new vintage market she’d been hearing good things about. And as she glances across the day’s haul, dotted around her dining table, she thinks – yeah. It looks damn decent. A couple of the books might require rebinding, but the majority of the set seems in good condition. There’s a gorgeous vest that needs one tiny hole fixed, which she’s _certain_ Ben will adore. The bracelets she isn’t certain yet whether she’ll gift or sell on. Beth’s developed a small following on eBay, but also – remains a little wary of brewing an obsession with that game. Plus it’s _nice_ to clean something up, present it to a loved one. Especially if it has tangible value. To be in a place where that’s _plausible_.

Once she’s neatly applied the mostly-tomato paste to the bruised brass and pulled her hands free of the gloves, running her fingers along the filigree detailing above the spout again briefly, she finds her nails tapping against the table-top, as she lines up what the next task should be. But suddenly the light hits _just_ right, bouncing off the metal object in front of her, causing Beth to turn her head. The day is still beautiful – golden and lush and, god, she’s been trying to break herself from frenetic habits, right?

So, after hanging the vest carefully, ahead of a teeny tidy session, Beth pours herself a surely deserved drink and snags the sun hat she’d been wearing earlier off the spot it swings, then settles herself out in the yard. A break turns out to be _real_ nice, once she’s forced it upon herself. Even if she swiftly retreats from the picnic bench to the shade of the deck, preferring to view the way her old enemy brightens her space, rather than risk frying her skin. But she feels exactly the right kind of warmed, in and out, and her mind floats free – reminding Beth that she’s been trying to drum up the recipe for the tarts she only semi-recalls from childhood, is certain of the involvement of raspberries and almonds and honey and–

The ding of the dryer snaps the wispy thoughts off, along with her eyes wide – then her body up and in. And while she’s pulling the load free, Beth rediscovers the previous undisseminated lot. So with an almost wistful not-exactly-sigh, she gathers up _that_ hamper and clambers the stairs. Dutifully folds clothing, slotting items into the correct places amongst the kids’ furniture. It’s kind of soothing in a fashion, that though her brood is absent, their presence is still very much present. But, god, she would _not_ mind a world where each piece of their outfits, bedding, whathaveyou could dang well wash then fly itself home without her interventions.

Some other tasks autopilot themselves into place around the bigger one, as she ferries herself down then up the stairs. This time only Danny’s bed reveals half a clementine, the others all entirely devoid of foodstuffs, which surely represents progress. Though Beth does discover multiple cans of cat food in Jane’s closet.

She hums as she deals with the final pair of socks – no odds in sight today, a factoid smacking its dull success – then finds herself shifting round the sketches on Kenny’s desk, to get a better look. A self-conscious thrum that she shouldn’t be peeping rushes her, but then – _he’d_ been the one to leave them out… Surely if he hadn’t wanted her to see them, he’d’ve thought to put them away? Beth sighs softly at the display, they’re not _bad_ exactly, but it doesn’t appear that Kenny has taken his teacher’s advice on board at all. The lines remain weak, the shading inattentive. It makes her ache for him – his enthusiasm for this, matched with the apparent blockades.

Maybe Dean – hmm. Well, _maybe_ Dean might be some help. But she certainly wouldn’t bet on it.

Beth’s still lost in thoughts over it as she clatters back downstairs, worrying she was too heavy-handed with her attempts to show Kenny examples. If that had perhaps pushed him into petulant disinterest.

When she rounds back into the living room, the empty hamper sinks from her arms, smacking loud against the floor.

Cos there is a – a distinct and unexpected _male_ presence in the room. Someone decked in head-to-toe black, almost literally. From the glossy jet shoes to the _maybe_ charcoal-grey hat – which looks objectionably _warm_ , if soft. Late spring is cresting entirely into summer and, particularly with the exertion of repeated stair-trotting, even in her relatively light dress, Beth doesn’t exactly feel _cooled_. And his buttoned up style ought to be seasonally inappropriate, not make her doubt her exposed skin, especially since he’s interrupted the privacy of her own home which–

“Aargh,” she says, exceedingly deliberate – if belated. It doesn’t seem a great effort in truth, Beth experiences that flop in the moment; the amused glimmer he gains highlights quite unnecessarily. 

It reminds her a little of the way Annie tends to scoff at her insistent _ow_ in response to Annie poking or prodding at her, as she quests for attention. Sure, that stuff doesn’t really _hurt_ , but Beth’s adamant her disapproval over such things should be made very clear.

She eyes her intruder, summoning wariness. It must be his confident comfort in her space tripping her, tricking her brain into briefly believing he belongs – preventing her from appropriately shrieking.

Because she does _not_ know him, is certain if they’d ever met she would _remember_. The stark points to those cheeks, the depths of his eyes. Jesus, that hand size.

But – but. She’s been out in the sun, downed a drink fast earlier. Maybe there’s some kind of reasonable explanation, a plan made then forgotten. Perhaps that’s what nudges at her? Though, as she trundles through possibilities, she can’t fathom what the _fuck_ that might be.

“Who are you?” she asks with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing here?”

The only reply she receives is a sharp grin. _That_ sets off the attempted alarm-chime, a muted cerebral cacophony.

“What do you _want_?” Exasperation leaks in through the short planks of her words.

He snorts at that, mouth blooming till Beth can see practically every tooth.

“Elizabeth, yeah?”

She’s not exactly sure what voice she was expecting to fall out of him, but it wasn’t _that_ – rumbling and stirring.

Beth nods automatically, remains unsure if him knowing personal details is a worse sign or what.

He raises a brow, then drags his eyes off. Cranes his head, gestures to the lamp visible on the table – the crown of the day’s yield, for sure.

And – shit. It’s probably time to wipe the paste off.

Beth stalks for the cloth and jug, before she recognises what she’s doing. Turns and, right, of course he’s followed her.

But if that’s what this is about – well. Beth raises a tutting finger. “I bargained that deal fair and square.”

He nods with blatant faux-interest, lips pursed. There’s far too much blinking.

“It’s not _my_ fault if she didn’t understand how much it’s worth,” Beth says, confident. Adds, with a sizeable dollop of excitement, “I have a _receipt_!”

She pats eagerly at the pockets she sewed in herself.

He regards her like _she’_ _s_ the one being strange.

Tension rustles round her crust, reminding her that there’s a high chance this excessively smiley stranger – who’s surreptitiously entered, if not indeed broken also – is a _threat_. One that might not be put off with a piece of paper.

“Seriously?” he says, mockery saturating his tone along with the roll to his movements. Like he thinks her stupid – or treating him as if he is.

And – yeah. Maybe she is supposed to know the script. Tremble with meek fear.

But he barely seems broader than her pinky finger. Beth considers the nearby objects, wonders if smacking him over the head with the heaviest of the books might do the trick. It’d be a shame to damage any of the collection but – needs must.

Though then he starts talking again. “Rub a lamp, stranger pops up. Really don’t ring a bell?”

“I’m not sure I’d call that rub–” Beth’s muttering dithers as the inference catches. Her focus swivels back to him, across the table.

“You’re–” Her pitch has climbed horribly high, sounds helium-drunk, almost. She forms a fresh effort, “You’re telling me – you’re a…genie?”

Beth labours at keeping her features relatively stationary, battling the urge to give squint to her reaction. Cos – wow. This is clearly a person that is quite, quite mad. The itch to get rid of him spikes.

“Djinn.” It’s delivered with more force than anything he’s said so far.

“Right,” Beth says, her attempted smile pinching. “Of course,” she adds, placating. Forces out a laugh which blows whimperish.

He rolls his eyes, like he tastes her disbelief.

Beth tries to offer something facially reassuring. But then he – disappears. She’s quite certain she hadn’t so much as blinked.

Before she can begin convincing herself she’s stuck in a hazed dream, or it’s all a sun-stricken delusion, she hears his voice from behind her.

Even as she turns, the electric knowledge that this might be _truth_ uncoils, wild, within her.

As soon as she catches his eyes, he does it again. Just – goes. And then he’s calling to her from what sounds like the kitchen. Beth steps for the noise. He’s right in front of her for less than a second after that; almost immediately not. The absurdly clean smell remains, scrapes at her nasal passages.

She stumbles backwards, forgets her footing. Her arms flail out, already flashing forward to the tumble ahead.

Except she _d_ _oesn’t_ fall. Is aware of the hands upon her skin first – one at her shoulder, the other gripping her side. And their extreme _warmth_. Not to the point of pain but it’s – striking.

Her eyes fumble open. He’s so close she’d be able to count the freckles dotting each cheek, if she could be sure she remembered how numbers work.

Beth says the first thing that comes to mind, “You’re not blue.” Her lashes snap together, then very far apart.

He experimentally removes one hand, next the other. Leaves them cupping nearby air a moment, till he seems happy with her steadiness.

“Mm,” he agrees, tapping long fingers against each other. “You neither.”

And Beth is – lost. More than.

She gives him a _wide_ berth, as she heads to the kitchen. Fills a large glass with water – gulps it down in two. Reloads. Sips that a little more sedately as she slumps onto a stool. Empties it speedily nonetheless, spills bourbon in subsequently, from the bottle she left haphazardly on the island earlier. That at least is stabilising.

“So,” he says, too cheerful.

She startles towards the sound. He’s practically at her elbow. And – right. Of course he’s followed her. Or maybe he doesn’t need to bother with so much as that. Simply pings himself to the precise convenient location without effort.

The nagging urge telling her that he is – technically – a guest is fought off, mostly. She did bring him here, apparently. But she counters that with the point that she didn’t _ask_ for this. Or if she did, it wasn’t on purpose. So, Beth refuses to offer him a drink. He doesn’t resemble the least perturbed by her glaring slight.

In fact he smiles, perhaps in a kind fashion, at her. Says, “What do you want?”

Beth frowns.

Unfortunately, he seems to take this as a reason to start _suggesting_. “Money? Power? Jewels? Mm, palace?”

Beth can’t help scoffing at that last one.

He drags a scorning eye about the place.

“I _like_ my house!” Beth bristles.

“It’s all right,” he offers, though she’s pretty certain she discerns distaste still. Then, much sweeter, “Could do better.”

Beth’s first thought flows with the next at least ten. _Trap_ , they yell, over and over. For the bait being presented, the seductive lilt to his words, the blatant way he’s been eyeing her, too. God, there’s simply no reason for a wish-granter to be presented in such a package otherwise, surely.

Maybe he tracks some of that crossing her features. Or could be he’s merely deep into his spiel. “There someone you hate?” he croons. “Want gone for good? Or you miss, want back?”

“No,” Beth says, but it’s uncertain, lacks emphasis. “You can’t do that – can you? Kill? Bring back the dead?”

“Oh, darlin’,” he says, leaning far too close, eyeing curls bordering her face. “I can do _anything_.”

His breath glides like a breeze.

She reminds herself that this is textbook temptation.

“No,” she says, real force to it, “I don’t want any of those things.” Beth pulls back, no pause to her scowl.

He laughs. “Worried ‘bout being banal?” His head tips, as those eyes smother her. “Don’t be. Nothing wrong with wanting more money than you know what to do with. Shiny cars? Champagne and caviar? Sure you’re made for finer stuff.”

The whispering syllables ring her, painting castles in the air. She stands her ground, however.

Specifies, “I’m doing fine. I’m the _boss_. And I’ve seen what greed can do. _No_.”

He backs off, ever so slightly – palms angled, as if in surrender. She’s pretty convinced it’s pure show.

His face turns _pointed_. “Love?” The suggestion’s made in an offensively soft voice, one eyebrow shimmies. The corners of his mouth become curlicues.

Beth snorts, hard. “I’m not some – child in need of a fairy tale.” There are few notions she has less time for than that of being followed about by some sick pup.

His grin turns lazy. “It ended bad?”

“Not that it’s any of your business–” Beth enters into, with real heat.

But he waves her off, dismissive. Which is _annoying_. Or would be, were she not so eager to move on from the topic. To end the conversation.

His eyes roam her, as if he can read her story printed on the inside of her skin. For all she knows, that’s something he’s easily capable of.

If there’s anything she craves, Beth decides, it’s drapes. Lots of them. Serious, thick ones. Because the way he’s glinting in the late afternoon light is – distracting. Beyond the bounds of the acceptable.

“Lust, then? A little…companionship?”

_That_ hits a nerve, especially given how Ruby and Annie have been encouraging, edging, her towards readiness to…get out there again, or whatever. But she refuses to let him see it.

Besides, and she knows it’s in no small part due to the manner her girls talk her up, Beth likes to flatter herself that she’s – attractive. Doesn’t require the help he’s offering.

“I’m – fine.”

The – genie, or whatever, hums. Runs his eyes down her face, neck, the exposed portion of her chest, before slowly springing back up.

It’s all – a bit much. A _lot_ much. Beth can only assume he’s giving her the _real_ hard sell for a reason. Recognises the ploy, she was married to a salesman far too long, after all. This guy’s face, that unreasonable mouth, there’s purpose to it, she’s sure. He needs her to buy. _Need_ _s_ it.

And – _no_. Cos Beth _kn_ _o_ _w_ _s_ how this goes. There are few forms of control more potent than extracting someone’s wants from them, for starters. In the stories, didn’t it pretty much always go wrong? The wilful misinterpretations; that be careful what you wish for message, plainer than day. Some trickster promised the moon, and from there it all unravelled. Beth’s well-versed in what she considers the classics. Read them first, with a lack of satisfaction, to her dolls. Then eagerly to Annie, next each successive child. Those warnings are etched inside her ribs, about as part of her as anything can be.

She feels a bit harsh as she gears up to say it. Unfair, perhaps. Because he’s presumably just doing his job. She couldn’t possibly begin to explain the minutiae of how this system works, but it’s clear he _ha_ _s_ to get her to fold, to wish. But. She must protect _her_.

After a big breath, she says, “I don’t want anything from you.”

He doesn’t look angry. Or even amused. More – soft. Drops a quiet, “’Kay.”

And then he’s gone. Not in a puff, god – it’d less disarming, were there some theatrics to it. One moment entirely present, the next – as if he never was.

Beth downs one more, mature, bourbon-pour, before ambling over to her trove. Sighs, as she carefully clears the paste from the lamp. When she’s done, it gleams perfect – not a blemish to be seen. She wouldn't have thought to leave it on so long. Perhaps a happy accident.

*

He reappears in the morning. Of course nothing could be so easy.

She’s sluggish through her pre-work routine, and when he suddenly pops up next to her at the counter, starting up his spiel again, Beth’s momentarily tempted to just yell the names of breakfast foods at him. But – she bites her tongue.

Were she not already deep into her second cup of coffee, she’s not sure she would have been capable of holding back.

Beth scrabbles through her purse, manages to source her sunglasses. Claws them from the case and onto her face. Makes for the front door.

“No,” she interrupts, part-turning her tired head over her shoulder. “I have to go.”

She doesn’t watch to see if he disappears. At least, blessedly, he doesn’t follow. The small mercy assuages her prickliness only minimally.

*

Thursday, he doesn’t wink by till the evening. Beth _barely_ startles.

It becomes just – normal. Not every day, not beyond that first week, but enough of them. And it’s eternally the same question, or at least there it begins. Him cycling through an array of the same hot topics.

He’s sneaky though. _Listen_ _s_. Keeps his eyes peeled. Overhears her cussing out a supplier; watches her haul basket after basket of dirty then clean clothes around.

She can’t say his suggestions of unlimited fresh fruit or miraculous self-sorting laundry aren’t appealing. Beth does baulk at the intensity of his enthusiasm for selling her on magical coffee-making skills, fervent since that first time she broke and offered him a cup.

She remains ill-informed on the process. Can’t exactly _trust_ him. So she doesn’t bother to ask much. Has continually chafed against being crammed into the role of novice, anyway. Beth forces herself to delete words like ‘want’ and ‘wish’ from her vocabulary, unless they’re presented in the negative, perpetually prepared for his sudden presence.

Although the whole thing is pretty annoying, the near-constant badgering, she does find some pros to it too. It surprises her, the first couple of times he holds a door open for her as she struggles to nudge past, both hands occupied. Though on reflection she has to acknowledge that it’s not as weird as all that. Ruby, or even Annie, would surely make the same move. It’s just – the only men Beth has ever lived with were Dean and her own father. Neither of whom were exactly renowned for their attentiveness.

Initially he sticks to watching her as he follows from room to room, their back-and-forth maintaining itself. It waxes routine to her, rapidly – though he does throw in curveballs. There are simply variations of, ‘I don’t want–’ that she has to supply, after all. But she sees how his eyes or fingers dart sometimes, curious and capable. Like perhaps he’s…willing to help, not wishing to intrude? Which is laughable, given how he regularly appears, uninvited, to pester her to distraction. But, still. He’s – well. Not human, for one. And profoundly strange, despite grading off _that_ curve, assumedly. His idea of normality, the lay of the boundaries, might be wildly different to hers.

So one day she cranes round to him, says, “You gonna help?” There’s maybe a little tease thrown in.

He hums noncommittally, but soon he’s stridden close. Folds with her.

And then that’s – happening. Fairly frequently he’s at the sink with her, drying or its opposite.

Beth forbids him from vacuuming after the incident with the rocks. He’s entirely gleeful the first time she leaves him in charge of the laundry though. For reasons unfathomable, he insists on watching the totality of the cycle, which she tries to explain is a waste of time but – whatever. She can’t seem to interest him in television, and Annie’s certainly beaten home her apparent lack of rights to comment on anyone else’s idea of entertainment.

She supposes the mundane detailing of her life might be captivating, alternate as it presumably is, for him.

*

The night of the anniversary, Beth’s out on the deck. She thinks about calling Annie, the way she’s been musing on at intervals throughout the day.

But she honestly isn’t sure if Annie indeed notes the date. Wouldn’t fault her if she doesn’t, truly. Their relationships with their mother were so different, Annie has no memories of the before – obviously. And _she_ never suffered with post-partum or–

Then suddenly – there he is. Occupying the wicker chair. He isn’t even particularly close, but his heat hits her, strong, perhaps because of the surprising force of the wind tonight. She’d meant to fetch a blanket but then she just…didn’t.

Beth doesn’t look up, but does push her glass, along the recently purchased cypress table, towards him. Swigs from the bottle instead.

“I think the dead should stay dead,” she says, eventually.

When she cants her eyes over, he’s absorbed the offering.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Probably right.”

*

Once more he’s reeling through his litany. This go bloated by the suggestion of a fucking _island_.

She mostly ignores his words, familiar white noise, but can’t help sticking on her confusion over him continually offering her the promise of jewels. They’re visibly not her thing.

The baubles she owned once, pseudo-cared for, like her wedding ring and that string of pearls, were pawned in the long ago. And she hasn’t sorrowed for seeing the back of them. Plus she isn’t _Annie_. The last time Beth wore something decorated with rhinestones she couldn’t have been much more than fifteen.

When she’s feeling charitable, Beth considers that _he_ certainly seems to like them. There’s always a stone winking above his nostril; metal and gems shimmering all over his hands, around his neck. Perhaps an assumption of mutual interest isn’t – unkind.

But ultimately she’s pretty convinced that his shtick is well-worn – one that permits small alterations, to make the subject presume connection; signification. She can’t take value from any of it. It doesn’t make her _special_ , she holds no real interest for him.

He has to be irritated by her refusal to wish, to play the game. The fact that he holds from really showing it, makes Beth suspect that he must be truly desperate for it all to end. It’s evidenced in his tautness, belying the relaxed vibe he continually presents. The stress is visible at his jaw, the ruffling of his shoulders – never for _long_. But it’s there, the tension in his bevels.

*

Beth allows herself a good cry in the kitchen. She was honestly moving towards a final sniffle before turning in. Of course that’s the moment he chooses to turn up at.

“What–” he starts, but trails off, taking in the scene. “Is up?”

“Oh,” Beth says. Blows her nose loudly. “Being the boss isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” She shares a mirthless, dampened laugh.

It isn’t – it isn’t just the pressure, the financial risk, though that’s always simmering away at the back of her mind.

“I had to fire someone today,” she murmurs. “Caught him stealing from the register. Turns out it’s been going on months. I _trusted_ him. I thought we were friends!”

He nods, seemingly sympathetic.

“So you set him on fire?” It’s offered without judgement.

“What?” Beth splutters. “No!”

“Ah, just singed off a part?”

She’s seriously incapable of working out if he’s joking. It sort of makes her chuckle, either way. And then he’s huffing soft too, the crinkles around his eyes coming out in full force, ageing his face pleasantly.

“Wait,” she says. “Are you the boss of – someone?” Then, playing it back, suddenly alarmed, “Do you – do you think you’re the boss of _me_?”

He simply snorts. But then says, a tad shifty, like this is not information he should be spilling her direction, “Got a squadron.”

She’s about to ask – what that means.

But he storms ahead, “Gotta pay the bills, yeah?” His shoulders dredge up, down.

Her eyes boggle. “You have bills?”

The rate at which he offers her untapped wealth, surely he should be capable of solving any such problem. Or at least maintaining the facade for her.

He sniffs, disparaging. “Not like your human shit. Not _money_.” His mouth turns, something reverent. “ _Real_ stuff.”

Beth can’t contemplate what that might consist of. But she sort of – itches to know.

He holds her gaze. “Got a kid to look out for, you know how it goes.”

She’s surprised at how surprised she is. Asks, “You do?” Is already tacking on, “What’s their name?” before he’s got much into the nod. Is too charmed by the idea of a mini–

Her hand flies to her mouth.

She coughs, peels her fingers up so they’re pinching the bottom of her nose instead. “What’s _your_ name?”

He laughs very, _very_ hard. It’s not mean though. Well, all right, it’s not as mean as deserved, anyhow.

And he does answer her question, once he’s calmed down.

Beth repeats it back to him – his eye shudders a little, she assumes she’s massacred the pronunciation, but he lets it go with a mutter she can’t pick up the meaning of.

“How old are you?” she dares to follow up with.

“Mm.” His pupils flicker like he’s counting, converting. “3000?” he suggests. “Give or take.”

“Oh,” she says, thrown. “You’ve – been around the block.”

His lips twitch till he presses them together, rolling his eyes over her.

Beth has to look away.

After a while he does what she expects. Asks, “So what do you want?”

It’s particularly cloying, tonight. “ _Nothing_ ,” she seethes.

*

He turns up a few evenings later, during dinner with the kids. And that’s – novel.

Rio’s technically been in the house at the same time as them plenty, but early in the morning, late in the night. None of them have ever _seen_ him.

It’s – bewildering. Beth’s unsure of how to proceed.

Especially when Jane spills, forthright and toothy-grinned, “Who are you?”

Beth ends up spinning a yarn on the spot, one about him being a union buddy of hers. Rio smirks blatantly, while the children’s focus is upon her. It’s very difficult to maintain facial clarity, not wrinkling in the desire to scowl towards his spot.

“What’s a, um. Onion?” Emma asks, uncertain.

Kenny beats Beth to the answering punch. It soon becomes clear he does not have a firm grasp on the concept. Once she hears the word ‘pinko’, Beth shuts him down flat. She makes a mental note to speak to Dean, _again_. Allows herself a brief fantasy of wishing, aloud, for Judith to go far, far away.

“Can you–” she begins, turning.

Rio’s already holding out the salad tongs.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” she asks, beleaguered.

The kids scarcely seem to note his presence, after interrogating him on a couple of pressing topics (the serpent detailing on an arm band, whether he eats millionaires). Clearly rate him another fussing adult, oodles less interesting than consoles or felines.

Beth can barely force her food down, too flustered – _distracted_ – by this strange set up. His grins, too.

At least the five together form an especially enthusiastic brigade of recipients for the trialled tarts.

Far later, all of her children long ago tucked in, when the two of them are having a drink, Beth says, “I don’t think it’s okay for you to just wander in whenever. I mean, the door was locked!”

He chuckles. “Not to _me_.”

She huffs out a sardonic, “Okay.” Adds, “ _They_ don’t know that you’re– What you– And I don’t w– I don’t think they _should_. It’s – complicated. They’re _kids_.”

His lashes shift, diagonally. But Rio doesn’t interject.

“I’m not having them grow up not caring about security, thinking we don’t lock our doors!”

“All right,” he concedes. “Tell ‘em I got a key.”

Beth blinks. “Why would you have a key?”

“Cos you gave it to me,” he responds, as if that’s obvious.

He walks the glasses over to the sink before Beth’s able to protest that she’s not sure she’s ready to part with hers.

*

Beth is – antsy. Rio hasn’t asked her what she wants in days. She’s certain this is a prelude to some giant snare or other.

He hands her dishes, as she dries. Mows while she burns. _Stares_. The silence is extremely disconcerting.

“Do you have – aspirations?” Beth asks, when they’re finished snacking. She tried with more cinnamon this time. They’re still not quite how she remembers, but maybe replicating isn’t the aim. Another recipe of her own is no bad thing.

“Mm?”

“You know – freedom? Humanity? A bigger lamp?”

His look of confusion doesn’t shift, except perhaps to grow.

“It’s not poky on the inside? Or is that not how,” she wiggles her hand, “it works?”

He blinks in consternation. “You think I live in – _that_?” Points to its place on the shelf.

She nods, although the certainty she has said something wrong knocks. It announces that she’s embarrassed herself by demonstrating her lack of knowledge. Which is infuriating, because how _could_ she have gleaned any of his secrets?

“Look at the size of it,” Rio demands, pointing yet.

So she does.

He jerks his head, apparently satisfied. His arm drops, though the expression on him remains – grim. “Now look at the size of _me_.”

Beth pinks.

She catches him muttering something that doesn’t seem particularly favourable about humans, before he disappears.

She soon discovers, from the jolly yells, that he’s not sent himself further than the lawn – has joined the girls in their attempt to teach Danny to not fear the soccer ball.

When she heads upstairs, Kenny’s eager to show her the topographic maps Rio helped him with. The outlines neatly traced, relief delicate. Her whole face lights as she rubs at Kenny’s back, even as he strives to twist from her proud palm.

*

It’s a genuine dream, one rippling up from her subconscious. No manufactured fantasy, dwelt upon as she drifted. A surprise, at least in some ways.

She and Rio are in the soft morning light of her kitchen, alone. They’re smiling, not a word passed between them, and then suddenly they’re kissing – and there’s so much _hunger_ , and he’s hard and _huge_ pressed against her, and she’s drenched and– She truly is when she wakes too. Her thighs are all sticky and she runs her hand there and–

And. It’s not a shock, not really. She’s been tying to repress the warmth. Not just the heat, but the horrible sense of _comfort_ that’s been cooking, deep within her.

God, Beth laughs to herself, she really does need to get laid. The worst part is that Annie and Ruby have stopped pressuring her with plans to make that happen. Cos of course the kids snitched, and the girls think she’s got some secret key-toting manfriend she’s hiding from them. Which sort of isn’t completely untrue, but not in the way they mean and – ugh. _Plus_ she might have to shell out for membership of the BCTGM to maintain the charade.

*

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?” Beth snaps, still awkward a day after, due to what she was imagining. God, she doesn’t want to so much as look at him.

But she sees his delight in her peripheral.

He asks, of course he asks. Loves to, she’s sure. And she’s never witnessed him turn down even the thinnest of invitations.

“ _Nothing_.” Bile hisses out.

*

It’s Sunday, and it’s not yet 10am, and it’s not her first drink.

But neither is this her week, Beth rationalises. And maybe when she’s not in mommy mode, or at least working, she isn’t truly a person. It’s dead air, a gap till she has to _be_ again.

Fuck, she can’t remember the last time she went antiquing. Is pretty sure she spent the past several Bethdays drinking and chatting with who she’s supposed to remember is basically her nemesis.

She won’t be drawn into conversation with him. She won’t.

So she pours another drink. Vows to check out that craft market Burton way as soon as she’s able.

But then, against her will, she sort of focuses in on Rio’s phrasing. She can’t imagine how they’ve gotten onto this track. They weren’t talking on any topic close to this, in fact Beth’s pretty sure she hasn’t said a word since her sour exclamation at noticing his presence.

She lets him tell her about the true meaning of stardust for some while. Then the price of spiritstuff, how to divert it, clean.

It terrifies Beth, for how real his words vibrate. They touch somewhere buried and implausible within her. Like she’d known them once before perhaps, but the cognisance of them has curved deep into her, too awful to look at. Or maybe like she was destined to hear them.

And she thinks – they need the desperate, right, he and his. That she probably has suggestions for where to find them, ones he’s never contemplated. Oh he knows stuff, sure. But he’s not _human_ – has never been touched by the pathetic, in the ways she has. And Beth pledges to never, ever tell him a single one of her ideas. Because she sort of really wants to, despite it all, and that’s more worrying than anything.

*

There are times she does think about Rio when she’s – well. _Alone._ It’s a little unnerving doing – that, whatever happens to be running through her mind. Because she can’t pinpoint the mechanisms of how he apparates. Is unsure whether he’s truly gone when she can’t see him, or if he skulks around, invisible.

But he’s never, not once, turned up in her bedroom. Has only been in there if she led him, likely hamper in arm, or sent him – through the French doors – to fetch her a glass of water or some such, when they’re out in the yard.

And she has – needs, god.

The fantasy turned her bright, bright red the first time. And the second. Up to the seventh, at minimum.

Cos – an alluring tableau as it is – his ravenous eyes on her, approving – it could not be further from what she could handle in reality. Shit, she would literally _die_ of mortification, she’s quite, quite certain. The idea of him popping up while she’s – doing that, him noting the shape of his name in her mouth, it haunts her. But it also – sort of edges her on. It’s probably pathetic, how fast she comes. How addled the thought of being _that_ wanted burns at her.

She bites at her wrist, any convenient bedding, to stifle her grunts just in case – how she had to back when Dean was still underfoot.

*

“What do you want?”

Beth takes some vicious satisfaction over how tired he sounds. Slices the zucchini too firmly.

“Do you know why I don’t want your money?” Her question interrupt his boring list. She rounds on him, not bothering to put down the knife.

“Cos greed is _evil_?” he mocks. “And you’re such a good person.”

Beth snorts. She does believe greed can breed awfulness, undoubtedly, saw it Dean’s way. But that’s not the truth of her reasoning, or at least not its whole.

She’s never breathed a word to a soul, beyond her two, equally involved, companions. But – it can’t hurt, can it? Besides, literally nothing about him inclines her to think Rio has any understanding of the criminal justice system.

So she lets it flow out of her, as her hands work over ingredients. How Ruby had needed money for Sara’s kidney, and Annie for her custody battle, amongst other expenses. That she herself _had_ to get out from under Dean, away from the mess he’d made of their finances, gambling all of their futures apart without a thought – all while finding scraps to spend on his mistress.

How the three of them had robbed a spate of stores, smart and clean. The plot that led her to _The Great Bakes_ , eventually. She details it _all_.

When she’s pulling the oven open, Beth stares Rio dead in the eye, says, “If there’s a problem, _I_ will handle it.”

He looks at her – funny.

“What?” she demands.

He shrugs. “Nothing.” But he remains gazing at her – like that.

“ _What_?”

“You're unusual.” That caresses like it might be a compliment.

*

The Bethday evening ticks on, the sun ambling towards its home beyond the horizon.

She’s trying on the dress, again. It’s an illicit thrill still. She can’t remember spending this much on anything frivolous in a long, long while.

Beth twirls by the free-standing arched mirror, flounces skirt.

“Looks good,” comes from behind her.

She must leap at minimum a foot in the air.

“What are you doing here?!” she yelps. And yes – okay, he’s constantly around. But not _here_ , not in her bedroom. Plus she already saw him this morning, had rushed off from the interaction, with a distinct sense of pride.

He shrugs. “Had business.” Rio taps one of his incisors.

Beth is – confused beyond measure. But then she thinks of Jane’s milk tooth, hidden under pillow upstairs. Jane’d insisted it be placed _here_ , Beth had had to divert to collect it from Dean earlier. She’s certainly had more pleasant afternoon surprises in her time.

“Are you–” She giggles. “Are you trying to tell me you’re the tooth fairy too?”

“There ain’t _one_ ,” he corrects. Then, eyeing her confusion with what looks close to outrage, “I do a lot, man. Scything, yelling, riddling. Switching too – if the price is right. No deep sea shit though.”

“Right,” she says, weakly. “Obviously.”

Her brain _hurts_ , trying to incorporate this data. Nothing seems to compute. There’s a dim echo of Annie lecturing her on diversifying, some preoccupation or other about vertical integration only quarter-caught.

“So,” he launches, predictably, into, “what do you want?”

Beth’s surging to tell him nothing, but – the way he’s looking at her is intensely distracting. So too the tension wafting.

And she just – gives in. Her voice sounds sultry to her own ears, “What if – what if what I wanted was for you to kiss me?”

“Yeah?” he asks, languid.

“Would you want to, or would you _have_ to?”

“You care?”

It’s – it’s a _little_ enticing, she has to admit. The idea of him enthralled, placed entirely under her spell. But, ultimately, not what she desires. She could never tolerate a lovesick fool.

“What do you want?” he asks, again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Until it’s a taunt-torrent with precious remaining meaning.

“I want you to stop asking me that!” Beth shouts.

She’s contrite immediately, hand flying to catch her mouth – it mostly swallows her gasp.

Beth waits with horror for at least one of them to disappear. When that doesn’t happen, she’s convinced she’ll discover he’s been struck mute.

But he simply shrugs. Says, “’Kay.”

He sees how frantic she remains, the sped pace of her breaths, and he _rolls his damn eyes_ , making her furious beyond measure. She wants to beat at his chest.

His hands remain folded ahead of him, but his thumbs tip in opposite directions. “Count it a freebie, yeah?”

A thought strikes her. “How many do I _get_?”

He makes a vague noise.

“How do they even _work_?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rio advises. “Just leave ‘em to the back pocket.”

Which doesn’t explain – anything.

She keeps on glaring at him, and he shifts slightly.

“Look,” he says. “There’s a bit more – ceremony to it. Paperwork. You don’t just say I want yadda yadda yadda, get it in a flash.”

“Is that true?” she demands, incensed.

His eyes squirrel and he says, “Mostly.” Which certainly isn’t a proper fucking answer either!

“What! Do! You! Want?!” she yells at him, only able to register his surprise at the question in the dimmest way. “Free dinners? To bother me? A – a necklace made of human teeth?!”

His look changes to one of consideration for that last one, like he’s heard far worse ideas, and oh god–

“Why the hell are you always here, huh? If you’re not trying to get me to crack and make a wish, what the hell do you want?”

“Why the fuck you think?” His voice is harsh, and she’s never liked it more, and oh – she is in _way_ too fucking deep.

A deep flush sprawls, there’s surely no chance he can’t see it.

His gaze is so _heated_ and Beth can’t look away and – shit.

A thought unburies. “Did you just – did you want me to beg?”

“Kinda.”

“You’re an _asshole_.”

He hums. It’s not disagreement. “Gotta be in this world, right?”

Her mouth opens, and she is quite certain she has something impressive to say in response. It’s washed away though, by his interruption.

“Take off your panties.”

Beth’s brain sort of – snaps. _Chasms_.

His words repeat slower, _lower_ , as his burning gaze holds hers.

Her eyes are _wide_ ; she’s half-certain blinking ever again might be beyond her.

So she – she wiggles them off from under her dress. _Demurely_ – without revealing anything. Well, beyond the – the underwear. His gaze drops, unmistakable, practically _lewd_ , to the floor, but she doesn’t let her own follow. Firms her face like this is – normal. Non-terrifying.

“Sit down.” Rio jerks his chin towards the dresser.

And that’s – okay, fine. This part she can do with ease.

But once she’s perched, he adds, “Lift up your dress.”

That’s not– So. _So_ , there are a lot of things she’d like to do with or on or to him but – he’s fully fucking dressed and nowhere near and the lights are on and she’s never – she can’t. Can she?

His coal-dark eyes are gouging at her, and the desire feels unmistakable, and when she bunches up the fabric, just a little, revealing more thigh, Rio licks and then bites at his bottom lip and. _God_. She wants to fucking maul his mouth. And she wants him to keep gazing at her like that, only _vaster_. And she wants him to touch her – is pretty sure she physically requires it at this point, but. If there’s something else he needs first, she can try to hold on, maybe, but she wants and she wants and she wants and she wants and she _wants_.

So she pulls the material higher – high _enough_. Shit, she knows that she’s damp, more than. Must be glimmering as she opens her thighs more, shifts her hips up, further to the edge. But Beth’s not a modicum tempted to glance down, because she _cannot_ look away from his fucking face.

That _want_ , it’s – affirming. Those fears lose root; the comprehension that he wasn’t bullshitting her soars.

But then he _disappears_.

Rematerialises in a wink though, before she can finish her huff. He’s knelt, pushes her knees about as far from each other as the pair go.

His gaze straddles her when he asks, “Still want me to kiss you?”

That, “ _Yessss_ ,” moans its way out of her, echoes past him diving the fuck in.

He licks her open, without tease. Without pretence. Tongues at her till she’s wailing.

Beth grinds at his face, tries to come off the surface below. Is distantly grateful for his hands, grasping at her thighs. Holds onto his head – is unsure if she’s pushing in or pulling off – as she gasps, “Please. _Please_.”

His tongue warbles against, within.

“Please fuck me.”

Rio thrums, agreeable. Continues mouthing, possibly with greater intent. Licks around, inside her – just _her_.

Relief is building – patient, huge, within. But–

“I can’t– Ah. I don’t think I can. Oh. Not like this.”

She feels him smirk, slow, steady, upon her. He doesn’t pull away. If Rio speaks it’s lost to – in – her. But she remembers the many times he’s told her he’s capable of anything. Especially as he splashes a punishing rhythm at her clit, then switches to sucking lengthy there.

Beth discovers herself journeying to splintering entirely apart, clenching over nothing. Cuts from reality for lengthy moments – eyes caged, internal vision snagging on lightbursts, pleasure pounding everywhere, her own sounds unrecognisable.

When her eyelids flutter open, he’s watching her face. At her aborted wrist motion towards him, Rio nods. Licks slow at her clit once more before disengaging, pads a path back down to swirl at her, oh, her _cunt_ – again, again, again.

She whimpers, strained.

He pulls back, slightly. _Laughs_. The warmth of it tickles at her sensitivity, and she squirms.

While he navigates the route up, his wet mouth whispers, “Turn round.”

Her legs hardly feel steady, but Rio helps her find first her feet, then the capacity for such a feat.

From his place at her back, he licks at her throat, grips earlobe with teeth. Grins at their reflections, as Beth shudders slightly. He leans in just right, so his eyes can travel her actual face, then switches to gazing at the one in the mirror.

“Maybe I’d like two of you,” he says, impish.

She – stares.

“Yeah,” he continues, brushing back her hair. “Keep one of you on my mouth and, mm.”

He rubs against her very deliberately, friction immediately making her push in kind.

She’s not even sure if that’s an attractive prospect to her, but damn if she doesn’t like how into it he is.

He flips the skirt of her dress up entirely, one hand clutching at her ass as the other moulds her position, bending her further.

She cranes her neck up though, needs to see how he worries his lower lip, the faces accompanying those pleased, teased groans.

A hand snakes round, swallows her clothed breast – nipple pinching between adroit fingers.

Beth ruts a stuttering beat back at him.

When she encounters his fingers swiping at her entrance, she whines her disapproval.

He hushes her, though she sees the soundless amusement reflected too.

She shakes her head, wriggles her hips right so she’s pushing against his crotch instead.

“Now,” she demands.

God, she feels like she’s _dripping_ , must surely be leaving proof on his pants.

He plies his fingers there again, teases at her slit with two. She hears a sibilant metallic sound though, ears pricked and hips shimmying.

“Just wanna get you ready.” The back of his hand soothes, cheek to chin.

“I _am_ ,” she insists, petulant.

He rubs against her, still shoving at his clothing. The head of his cock nudges at her opening and – _oh_. Fuck, ohhhh.

“Sure ‘bout that?” he provokes, thrusting smoke-light.

And, _god_ , he is big, and it’s been _so long_ , but– “Trust. Me.”

It’s a slow, slow, slow slide as he pushes inside her, her cunt twitching fresh for each new inch. The grumbling whines pare from her, unwilling. She falters, but Rio catches onto her, one hand cushioning breast, the other clenching hard to hip. Beth’s stomach feels to be cramping, she’s certain her jaw is about to spring apart, the way it keeps yawning in silent screams, volume even too much to conjure.

She is _not_ used to this, swears she can taste him in the back of her fucking _throat_.

She cannot look. Shit, she’s not sure she can _see_. When he’s all the way in, flush against her, all she can do is flutter around him and gasp in broken breaths. She has no idea how long she spends like that.

Beth hears strange choked noises – is fully unsure if they’re from her or him, or an accidental harmony.

“ _Move_ ,” she grits.

“Hmm.”

Then, falcon-fast, his thumb’s at her clit. Beth shudders, caught against him.

“Maybe I want you finishing like this, without me even fucking you.”

His thumb rubs, _harsh_.

Beth spasms. _Begs_. Or she thinks she does, anyway. They might not be the right words. Hell, might not be words at all.

His laughter’s bright, if strained, near her shoulder. He’s – he’s all over her, everywhere.

The thumb falls away and he finally, _finally_ , starts moving, but it’s _so goddamn slow_. She tries to increase the pace, but finds herself at his mercy, those giant hands holding her in place.

“ _Please_ ,” she whines. “Please let me come.”

Rio whisper-chuckles. “You just did.” But it’s not mean, no nettling. More – sanctifying.

But she fumes fucking rabid with the need for release. Was certainly left in the lurch far too many times in this very room.

Maybe he reads that. Could be he knows it. “I got you,” he says. “Promise.”

But just as she starts to relax he licks under her ear and basically threatens, “’Sides, longer you’re waiting, better it’ll be.”

She huffs, flails her distaste.

“Treasure, second you’re done, just gonna work you back again. And soon as I’m finished fucking you, getting my head between them pretty thighs again. What’s the rush?”

Beth relaxes a sprig. Or maybe she simply _unspools_ at the pictures blurring.

“Matter of fact,” he adds, barely panting as he fucks leisurely jolts into her. “Wanna take a break, I could–”

“No!” she hisses, straining for – round – his cock. She pries one of her hands up to press his side – pulling Rio into her, encouraging him to stay put.

“You sure?” he jokes. Or she thinks he does, the tone sounded serious.

And – yeah. Maybe the idea of him dropping back to his knees is a little – interesting. Not one she’s against, theoretically. But, and she can’t find any better words to say it with, so she lets them jumble forth how they organically form, “It’s the first time.”

He incites a considering noise, which swirls towards assent.

Murmurs, “You won’t always be this lucky.” Shoves his face to her neck, grabs both her hips and speeds it the _fuck_ up.

Beth starts losing it. A – well, a lot. The slap of his hips against her. The stretch of him inside. The mumbling by her ear. She can sense blessed alleviation, almost reachable, again – that warmth tingling, _burning_ , through her. She’s tempted to drop her hand, rub at her clit. But also – maybe suspension isn’t the worst thing.

“Only time you shouldn’t be coming is when you’re sleeping.”

The words make her mewl though a pedantic, distant, slice of her wants to protest that she has rather a lot of responsibilities. None of which seem particularly pertinent at present.

His breath shudders. “I’ll let you have a little rest, after.”

Beth tuts. He’s got literal millennia on her. And she has plenty of experience at pushing through tiredness.

“But how you want me to wake you up. My tongue in you?”

“God.”

“Mm?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yeah.”

“Yeah, better than an alarm clock, huh.”

Maybe it’s down to the tantalising fucking visual, or the shifting angle of hips, or just the relentless tempo, or the combination, but suddenly Beth finds she’s tipped head first into her orgasm. His hands squeezing at her tits, mouth sucking at the top of her spine, both appease and agitate her as she surfs and thrills. Pleasure zings, limps her boneless.

When she’s calmer, Rio gets her to turn back, somehow – guides her clumsy limbs, soothes her grousing. Rests her against the dresser. Her legs wind around him, and when he pushes back inside of her she groans, deep. He swallows the noise, kissing her mouth finally, finally, finally. She’s so lost to his tongue travelling her contours, the feel of his agonisingly plump lips, wondering if that’s _her_ she can smell, trying to hold in the desire to bite as hard as she craves, that she barely even _notices_ he’s lifted her, till he’s seated at the bed, fucking up into her as she quivers on his lap.

He coaxes the rest of her clothes off, some way. Beth doesn’t suppose she’s much help with wrestling the dress, nor her bra. He nuzzles into and at her breasts, contentedly. Works a small, sweet climax from her before he finishes, pulsing into and rubbing at her as she shivers, gnawing at his still-covered shoulder.

He tumbles back onto the mattress, after. Beth pulls off of him, flops onto her back, grasping at air.

Her hand wobbles instinctively to clutch at her cunt, registers what’s leaking there.

“Oh shit,” she breathes, dazed.

Cos she can forgive herself getting lost in the moment, yes, but if she’s got any fucking say in it, that’s not the last time _that’s_ happening.

She squints in concentration, tries to line her words into the correct order. “Pill works. You with?”

Rio hmms. Says, “Yeah.” Then, “Probably.” Which is comforting only in its familiar levels of cryptic.

He nudges her, till her head’s pillowed. Places a kind of chaste kiss to her cunt, then goes for her clit.

She has to shove him away, overloaded. _Raw_.

He snorts, smug. And she is definitely going to throw something at him. In a minute.

She hears shuffling, then he presents the box of Kleenex from the nightstand her way. All she manages is severe blinking.

He wipes at the mess, she sort of sees him ball up tissues, lob them at the trash can.

“Twenty minutes,” she mutters, before drifting straight off.

When Beth stumbles awake she’s swiftly aware of Rio’s bare flesh – boiling and tantalising against hers. Her hands and eyes devour him, the taut layered muscles she’s hitherto had only hints of. Those decorative lines and whirls she had no inkling about, too. Her fingers brush his dick. She could get lost here easily. Very easily.

But, still. “Promises were made,” she tells him, caustic.

“You been out four minutes, max.”

He doesn’t seem anything but positive towards the prospect though. Pops himself down, pulls and holds her thighs with his preposterous hands. Eats her till she cries.

Later, after a fairly perplexing conversation about biology that Beth thinks _mostly_ calmed her, although he’s forever too vague, she asks it again.

“Do you need anything from me?”

His eyes don’t meet hers, but she’s pretty sure that’s cos they’ve dropped to ogle her breasts, rather than evidence of shiftiness.

“Like – to make a wish? Or – set you free? Or…something?”

His throat vibrates, distracted, as those fingers raise to twiddle round nipple. Her words must bluster through though, cos his brow creases with a small frown. “Nah,” he says. “Got an entire squadron. Don’t you listen?”

“I have literally no idea what that means.”

He rolls his eyes, mumbling beneath audibility. Which makes her want to howl from irritation.

But then he adds, with a smirk, “You trying to get rid of me?”

Beth doesn’t dignify that with a response.

And then Rio’s harping on, same as always, with a, “What do you want, Elizabeth?”

Except this time his hands are trailing her skin, and his lips are a whisper off hers and she thinks – she can do anything, probably. _Anything_.

Beth muses on him, grinning unrepentantly, seated at her dining table. Perched as a long-legged pest atop the kitchen counter. The way he sits on the picnic _table_ , thighs spread, making her mouth water in that very specific style. The en suite also, which she presumes Rio’s not yet visited.

And on the other pieces, too – deeper buried and surely more troubling. The questions she wants to ask – about how it all works. Those half-thawed ideas floating several layers beyond her extremity. Whether he helps, hinders. If the answer to that matters truly, would thwart her from suggesting, claiming. But those can wait, probably.

She says, “Got a few ideas. You?”

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Genie in a Bottle by Christina Aguilera (obviously)
> 
> The nobody ever asks the genie what they want, and the person who refuses to wish vibes (albeit not necessarily for the same reason), are very much inspired by 'October' by Neil Gaiman from 'A Calendar of Tales'.
> 
> The bureaucratic supernatural world and particularly the tooth fairly franchise, is largely from Terry Pratchett's Discworld (and specifically Hogfather).
> 
> I somehow accidentally became obsessed with my own prompt which septiembre was extremely indulgent and encouraging of, and some of her suggestions definitely mashed into my brain so thank you so much for all of that!! (ps I still think our idea of handing this assignment out to everyone was a great one tooooooo!! #moregenieaus2020)


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